Narcissa
by Opheliadarling
Summary: A vignette centering on Narcissa Malfoy's reaction to Lucius and Draco's arrest and imprisonment. If there is interest, I may continue my writings and make a series of vignettes like this one, focusing on different times of Narcissa's life.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor does this work in any way, shape, or form imply such ownership. I wish I did, for I would then be rich. But I don't.

This has the potential to become a series of vignettes about Narcissa Malfoy. Her life, her childhood, her marriage, and her death can all be covered. The reader response will determine whether or not this post is the last.

This is my first Harry Potter fic, my first serious fanfic, and the first and only complete piece of writing about Narcissa Black-Malfoy. She's a fascinating character, and I hope I do her some sort of justice here.

Reviews, flames, comments, concerns, questions, etc. are more than welcome. Just leave me something.

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It is impossible to describe the sound that well-manicured nails make when drummed repeatedly against a table. It is some sort of odd cross between a tap and a drumbeat. It is neither an annoying sound nor a pleasant one, but is simply there, taking up the time, waiting. The sound can morph to be one made in annoyance, or simply one made idly, a gesture to show expectancy or waiting. It can be muted or sharp, distinct or muffled, depending on the owner's clothing, hands, and state-of-nails. Therefore, in a strange way, the sound of nail tapping reveals a great deal about a person.

Close-up on the nails in question: They are impeccably manicured, sensibly sized: not too long, not too short. Ladylike and dainty, but with an air of danger, as though they were really more claws than nails. The table against which they drum is perfectly polished wood, the surface so reflective it appears that two identical sets of nails meet at its surface, one from below the table, one from above. When these two mirror images connect, that indescribable tapping sound is produced. We follow the hand up long slender fingers, discover a delicately formed arm, travel up its pale and slender length to discover a pinched and drawn face, but one that nonetheless speaks of beauty, wealth, elegance, poise, power, evil. Yes, this woman had seen things and done things no one should ever see nor do. Life had aged her beyond her 37 years, and yet life had let her age well.

But then again, who would've expected Narcissa Black-Malfoy to age poorly? Everything the Malfoys did was done with grace.

_Even losing their fortune, falling from favor in the ministry, and being unmasked for their beliefs in regard to Voldemort. _

A grim smile on an overly tired face. Such thoughts are mild to Narcissa. Nothing surprises she who has seen so much, and therefore life no longer holds pleasure. The hand once again demands attention, for it has ceased its tapping. The fingers now trace the woodwork of the table in a lover's caress. How many times she buried herself in housework, pretending she didn't notice where her husband went, and how often he was gone. This table's shine became her reason for existence. She remembered fondly the days when the Malfoys could employ servants for their every need, the days when she would never have dreamed of demeaning herself by polishing a table. That had lasted only as long as the first time she had served her husband and son dinner for the first time. She had noticed then how the plates made such marks on the table, and it had saddened her to see its perfection marred. The next day, she had polished it for the first time.  
Each morning she would wake up early to cook, and without fail her breath would catch as she passed the dining room. There it stood in all its glory, sunlight blazing on its mirror-bright surface. Sadness would wash over her, and she would almost cry for the table. It never seemed to realize that within the hour its sheen would be destroyed, its splendor disfigured. And yet each day she continued to cook and serve on it, creating a never-ending cycle of tarnishing and polishing, tarnishing and polishing. In the table's shining surface, Narcissa saw a mirror for her own life. All the emotions that a Malfoy was never allowed to show were channeled into this piece of furniture. The love that she showed her husband became her prerogative for the constant doting on the table. Affection led to her caresses of its corners, and subsequent removal of her fingerprints.

She watched as this final caress left the telltale streaks on the beloved surface. She grinned mirthlessly, choosing now to treat the beloved objet d'art with the accepted Malfoy family emotions: rage, hatred, jealousy, anger. In an act of reckless defiance she let the streak remain, and stood up from her chair. With a wild fire in her eyes she ran her hands all over the table, watching with twisted glee as streaks appeared, marring the surface once more. She stood back, hands on hips, to admire her handiwork.

Yes, it was fitting that the table be left like this. It was to be picked up soon, along with the rest of the Malfoy manor finery. It would all be gone and she would be left exactly as she had been at birth: with nothing. Husband and son in jail, blood relations imprisoned or dead. Where was left to seek refuge? Certainly not with Potter and his crowd. She'd never done anything herself to hurt them, but then again, why should they believe her, let alone care to help?

Not that she was penniless, oh no. Her friend the table was taking care of that. She would miss its companionship, the quiet devotion it had shown her, but she would miss more the food and lodging its sale would finance. Everything was going, all trappings of wealth and prestige of the Malfoy family. Some of it had already been sold, and the rest of it she didn't want. Draco and Lucius would never leave Azkaban, making her the sole guardian of the estate. An estate full of painful reminders of her life, her emotional deprivation, her quiet half-existence. It hurt. She could admit that now. Her smile turned genuine now. She could use the money to be someone different. She didn't have to live up to being a Black or a Malfoy anymore, who was around her to judge or force her? For the first time in her life, Narcissa Black-Malfoy was her own master. The doorbell rang. A wizard with the money for the house and all its effects. With a smile and a few quiet words, galleons changed hands, and Narcissa left. She glanced back only once, catching a last and fleeting glimpse of her beloved table. She wouldn't need it anymore. With no regrets and no sadness, she walked out of Malfoy Manor for the last time and into a new life: the life of Narcissa.

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Well, that's all she wrote, as the saying goes. Or at least (for the moment) that's all she posted. Review, tell me if you'd like me to post more like this.

Ophelia


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